


Weights and Measures Do Us Both a Wrong

by BardsBeBardin924



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Love Letters, Minor Character Death, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardsBeBardin924/pseuds/BardsBeBardin924
Summary: Gwen and Morgana find themselves on the opposite sides of Camelot’s conflict after Morgana’s first bid for the throne. Cast out in a hovel, Morgana hides. Bound by duty to Camelot, Gwen works. One day, through Gwen’s great risk, the two begin a tense correspondence by way of covert letters. Over time, they remember each other. For what they mean to each other, aside from the mess of the world. For who they truly are, deep in their hearts.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Weights and Measures Do Us Both a Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins right after the s3 finale, and from there it slowly deviates from canon.

Morgana returns to her hovel, arms laden with damp wood. She worries not about the state; she knows how to make it light.

Nudging the door open with her hip, she drops the load by the hearth. It burns low: bright enough to warm, but no more. Her sister stresses the importance of remaining hidden.

_Until the time comes._

Whatever that may mean.

Her sister shivers, and Morgana gathers up another blanket from the corner of the dank, stone, and barren hut. She shakes out the rough cotton material, blinking away the dust in her eyes. Bringing it over to her sister, she tucks it in tight. The shivering eases, only just.

It pains Morgana to look at her sister too long. Angry red blisters contort her face. One of her eyes is permanently bloodshot. Hair that once was golden blonde is now as frail as straw, matted with mud. Pangs of regret shoot through Morgana’s chest, and she turns away.

She shakes her head, grimacing. She wonders if any of it was worth it. The army of immortals was too good to be true, she knew it. The guilt of her sister’s mortal wounds weighs heavy. Too heavy.

She pushes it away, and sets about cooking up a sorry excuse for a stew. They’ll need something of substance, so Morgana heads back out, pulling her shabby cloak on, ready for a hunt.

As she swings the door open, she notices something nailed to its front that wasn’t there before. A folded piece of parchment, bearing a scribbled word, quite simply: _Morgana._

She snatches it in hand and looks around, paranoia making her on high alert. She slams the door shut, casting a protective ward over the hovel. It’s sloppy, but it will do. Her heart races in her chest, her breathing quickens.

Her sister doesn’t notice a thing. Morgana slides down to the floor, hands trembling. She unfolds the parchment and reads.

By the end, her blood boils. She clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring. The fire in the hearth surges forward, magic sparking under her skin. She crumples the letter back into her pocket, swings the door open, and slams it shut. Running deep into the forest, she screams, and the world falls away.

The letter:

My lady,

I do hope, with all the genuine faith I can muster, that this letter finds you well.

You may not believe me, or may see this as mere sarcasm, but you must know that the truth in my heart wishes you good health. And the same for your companion – your sister, was it? I hope she can find the care she needs.

I’ve been left reeling in the aftermath of the chaos you caused here in Camelot. I’m so… confused, my lady. There’s no other way to describe how I feel. I thought you might be comfortable to be honest with me about your intentions. Now, it seems, I was wrong in that assumption. I am sorry that this was the case, and that you felt as though you had to keep your plans secret.

But, my lady, I can’t help but ask. Why did you do this? Why did you turn against your own people, murder innocent citizens of the kingdom to which you claim the throne? Why did you imprison those who did you no wrong?

And why, my lady, did you put me in harm’s way?

I only wish you could explain yourself to me. Show me what is in your heart, truly – not whatever games you’ve played over the past year.

And please know, my lady, you will always hold a space in my heart. You were so dear to me once, and I hope that can be so again. Please write to me if you are able, and I will await your response.

Yours,

Guinevere

~~~

Guinevere bustles through the castle, veering around corners far-too-quickly than what is considered decent. It is of no matter to her. There’s too much to fix, too much to clean, too much to care for. In her hand is a basket of clean linens, freshly washed. She’s taking them to the royal chambers to change the King Uther’s bedsheets.

Entering the room, the penetrating scent of stale, dusty, and rotting air takes hold of Gwen. She pushes back the familiar wave of nausea, painting on a pleasant smile. Not that the king ever notices her. Notices anything, really.

She busies herself with changing out the bedsheets, willing the fresh linens to bring some life into the room. It does nothing but stir the air, and she swallows back rising bile.

An insistent tapping starts up on the window. Gwen glances up, sees it’s nothing but a bird, then turns back to the chambers.

As she works though, the tapping becomes so insistent that it rouses the king. She goes to the window, attempting to shoo the damned thing away. As she opens the window, though, it stills, and she follows suit.

The raven extends out a clawed foot, where a scrap of paper is tied. Gwen’s stomach knots, and without thinking, she takes the paper, ripping it a bit in the process, and shoves it down her bodice. The raven leaves in a rushed beating of onyx wings. Uther inquires about the fuss, but Gwen gives him a smooth smile and a half-excuse. He descends back into his fog.

She gathers up the dirty bed dressings, the parchment scratching against her pounding chest. She worries a flush is rising on her chest as she practically runs down the corridors, back down to the laundry chamber. Depositing it with the servants, she makes a quick departure, wiping sweat-slick hands against her dress.

She ducks into a nearby cupboard, all-but-forgotten, cobwebs decorating the empty shelves. Barricading the door by wedging a stool under the handle, she leans against its wooden frame. Her breaths come short and rapid. She shoves a hand into her bodice, pulling the small paper free. She catches the pinpricks of light coming through the slats in the door, reading with bated breath.

At the end, her heart sinks. She sighs, weariness taking the place of adrenaline. She shoves the paper back into her dress, and hours later, as she gathers up the king’s dinner, she tosses the crumpled slip into the hearth’s flames.

The letter:

Gwen,

Please, do us all a favor, and step down from your high horse. It is of no matter to me whether you hope my sister and I are well – your opinions on the matter are useless.

I should not have to explain myself to you. My actions are my own. If you knew me at all, you would know I had no choice. I had to take what was rightfully mine. Uther was a tyrant – would you see him sit another day on the throne? Or have you so quickly forgotten the unjust murder against your own father?

So no. I will not give you the satisfaction of an explanation just so you can pity me for my plight of life. Do not write me again. You will regret it.

Morgana

~~~

Half a year passes, slow and frantic all at once. Gwen’s life becomes steeped in the dusty scent of a fading king. She tries to forget the note, but try as she might, everyone around her speaks the writer’s name.

Whispers of the sorceress’ whereabouts. Encounters at the edge of Camelot. Movements of surrounding armies. Prince Arthur is stretched thin. Everyone around him tells him what to do. He comes to Gwen for answers, or comfort, or both.

Each time the sorceress is mentioned, Gwen fights the pang of betrayal that rises up like acid in her belly. Each time, she tries to forget the glimpse of the high priestess, lumbering through the forest, bearing piles and piles of wood unfit for fire. Each time, she forces herself to push away the memory of her terror as she ran up to the hovel’s door to pin her daring letter.

Each time, she takes Arthur’s hand, and remembers that she made her choice. She gives it a friendly squeeze, and he tightens his grip in return.

This night, much like any other night, the two of them are keeping each other company, their dear friend Merlin clearing away the dinner trays. If Gwen weren’t constantly half-looking for it, she would’ve missed the soft flutter of a raven’s wings, landing against the windowsill. She walks to the window, complaining about the stuffy air, and cracks the window open.

The raven cocks its head to the side, almost in recognition. It extends its foot, a scroll of paper attached to its leg. Gwen turns to look at Arthur – he’s in the middle of a row with Merlin, distracted about the state of his armor – and takes the paper, tucking it away once again.

Late that night, in the comfort of her bed, she retrieves the paper and reads. At the end, she scoffs, shaking her head. She rips the paper apart until it is in shreds, and they join the embers of her fire.

The letter:

Gwen,

Do not read anything between the lines of this letter. Believe me, if I had any other options, I would take them. But you, it seems, are the only source I have left.

I need you to do something for me.

In Gaius’ chambers, there should be a vial of hawthorn and rosemary tincture. I need you to take it and bring it to the heart of the darkling woods. On the eve of Beltane, I will meet you to retrieve it.

If you do not do this for me, you will pay the price.

How is Arthur, by the way? Your beloved golden prince? Is he taking the collapse of his demented father well?

Send your confirmation with the raven – call “ _Cyflawni,_ ” and she will appear to you once again.

I will see you soon.

Morgana

~~~

Morgana attempts, once again, to grind the greenery she’s found into something edible. Sweat gathers on her brow, and she wipes it away with filth-covered hands.

_This has to work,_ she thinks, pushing stone against stone, pulverizing herbs into paste. She looks over to her sister – she’s asleep. She’s asleep most of the time, these days. It is up to Morgana, and Morgana alone, to make sure that her heart continues to beat.

Until the time comes.

Her sister finally disclosed why it is so important to remain hidden, and alive, and when Morgana heard of her final plan, she was sick, then and there. But there is no other option. Morgana cannot bear to lose her sister. Not now. Not before her death will mean something.

She’s so busy with her frantic herb pounding that she doesn’t notice the return of her raven. Not until it starts poking at her hand, drawing a pinprick of blood. Morgana rips the parchment away, shooing the bird. She reads with bated breath. At the end, her hands tremble. She cries, her silent tears streaking down her dusty face. She knocks the herbs aside and runs, out and away, hopelessness overtaking her.

The letter:

My lady,

Allow me to make one thing clear to you: I will not take orders from you, nor tolerate your empty threats and manipulations. I respected your wish not to contact you again. And yet, here you are, asking me to help you, when you have given me no reason as to why I should do so.

Maybe I really don’t know you, as you have made clear.

I suspect the tincture is for your sister. It surprises me that such a capable woman as yourself cannot make such a simple mixture on your own.

I’m sure you will be able to come to a solution on your own, my lady.

If you ever want to discuss your motivations for betrayal, I would be eager to listen. But I will not be at your beck and call, servicing your every whim.

Sincerely,

Guinevere

~~~

It is hours later, the same night Gwen sent her initial letter, that the raven returns. Its angry pecking pound on her window, and she is glad her brother now occupies the citadel, or he would’ve surely heard the commotion. Gwen takes the parchment, the raven snapping at her all the while. The raven is angry, Gwen realizes. It flies away, off into the night.

Gwen reads by the moonlight. At the end, she stiffens, willing herself not to react. But still, the hurt comes, and the tears fall. She reads again, with blurry vision, committing the letter to memory. Then, the parchment burns in her fire, the angry and sloping words fading to ash.

The letter:

Gwen,

What do you expect from me? Do you want me to pour out my dark, cold, desperate heart to you? Show you my desolate inner demons? I’m sure it would be very cathartic for you to cry over my heartache and inner turmoil.

I’m afraid, dear Gwen, that there’s nothing of the sort. You give me far too much credit.

In fact, it’s very simple. When I need something from you, I get it. If I don’t, then I will raze everything you love to the ground.

You will meet me at Beltane with the tincture.

Morgana

~~~

Beltane comes and goes, and Gwen goes nowhere near the physician’s chambers, nor the darkling woods. She spends the celebration surrounded by friends and family, willing the part of her mind seeking out a flash of pale skin in the forest to quiet.

But in the time after the holiday, she’s wary. She rarely goes anywhere by herself, and when the prince or his servant ask about it, she brushes their concerns away. They have more pressing matters, anyway, like tracking down the woman with which Gwen has regular correspondence.

So when the raven wakes her, just before dawn, Gwen is not surprised in the least. In fact, she may even feel a bit of anticipation. Excitement, even, at defying a high priestess.

_Morgana,_ she reminds herself. She is so much more than a title.

She reads, taking note of the hurried scribbles, the spots of blotchy, watery ink. At its end, she frowns, saddened, a sickening satisfaction settling in her chest. She rips the letter apart, tearing the paper with her teeth, destroying it completely and thoroughly, before sending it to its fiery death in the hearth.

Then, she summons the raven.

The letter:

Gwen,

You did not do as you were told, and that is a decision you will come to regret.

I will destroy all that makes you who you are.

I will tear you apart, bit by bit, until you look in the mirror and hardly recognize the woman you see.

I will wrench the kindness from your heart, and in its place, there will be a wound that festers and blisters and bleeds until you’re strung out, a shell of the person you are now.

This world will be sapped of all that is good, and pure, and fair, and it will be because of you, damn you, Gwen!

You said you hoped my sister would receive the care she needs, but don’t you understand? I cannot give it to her! I cannot care for her and she is dying, and I needed you, and you weren’t there!

How could you do this to me, Gwen?

How could you betray me like this?

My sister is dying and it is your fault.

You, and all of the pious people you surround yourself with.

I don’t think you are prepared for the deaths that will follow in the wake of your decision. And when they come, there will be blood. It will be on _your hands,_ Guinevere, blood that will never wash away!

M

~~~

The raven returns to Morgana later than she expected. Even more unexpected, it bears a letter, tied round its leg.

Morgana shakes her head, confused. She was certain her last letter would drive fear into Gwen’s heart, so deep, she wouldn’t dare respond further. Just seeing the parchment, perfectly rolled and tied with crimson red thread, sets Morgana’s blood boiling. Somewhere behind her, another clay pot shatters.

She takes the letter with forcibly steady hands, pulling the thread loose with slow deliberation. Taking the paper in hand, the edges smolder at her uncontrolled touch. She drops the paper at once, willing the fury to calm. Morgana tries again. Takes a shaky breath. She picks up the letter, and she reads.

At its end, she feels her guts knotting themselves to oblivion. She wills the regret rising up to go back to its dungeon where it is carefully locked away. And then, she opens her chest at the foot of her bed, folds the parchment carefully, and tucks the letter atop the small stack of the rest, before sealing it away, shame burning the back of her throat.

The letter:

Morgana,

Your words are rich, coming from you.

Do you hear yourself? Did you read what you wrote?

I am not the traitor, Morgana. _You_ are. _You_ turned your back on your people. People who raised you. People who were your friends. Me.

For what? A woman who promised you riches and power? That’s not the Morgana I know, and it’s not the Morgana I wish to help.

The Morgana I know is worthy of any throne in Albion.

On your first day in power over Camelot, there was a part of me that celebrated your claim to the throne. When I saw you with the glittering Pendragon crown on your head, I was proud to be your maid. I thought you would bring in a new era, one where everyone in Camelot was protected.

You used to be so pure of heart. I thought you would care for Camelot the way you cared for the druid boy, those years ago. With tenderness. With determination. With love.

But no, Morgana. You were not what a ruler should be. You were not fair, and just, and compassionate.

You were blinded by your hatred and your hunger for power.

On your first day with the crown, you turned a firing squad against your own people.

_Your own people, Morgana._ People that you’ve smuggled bread out of the castle for when the harvest was thin. People who spun the fabrics you wore. People who were my neighbors. And you murdered them in cold blood. You are nothing more than a criminal of war.

So do forgive me if I no longer feel an obligation to assist you. Whatever your sister has turned you into is nothing I want to come near, ever again.

Guinevere

~~~

It is the week before Samhain. Somehow, it has come down to Gwen to organize the feast, due to circumstances apparently out of her control. Arthur must delegate, Gwen supposes. It must be an honor, some way or another. Lugging armfuls of tapestries up through the castle, though, the honor bears its burdens.

That night, Gwen collapses into a chair in the prince’s room, Merlin lounging next to her. He toys with the frayed edge of her dress, and Arthur drinks himself to sleep. A familiar tapping starts up on the nearby window, and Merlin jerks upright, on high alert. Gwen’s heart pounds, so loud, she’s afraid her friends can hear every beat.

“What was that?” Merlin asks.

Arthur rouses with a grunt.

Before either can get too curious, Gwen rises to stand. “I’ll go look,” she says, hoping her voice is neutral and curious. She goes to the window and pretends to scan the horizon while the raven waits patiently on the stone windowsill. She opens the window on the pretense of getting a clearer view. With a smooth and steady movement, she removes the parchment from the raven’s leg, tucking it into the safe space in her bodice.

She pretends to frown, praying the anticipation sending sparks through her chest doesn’t appear on her face. She tells them both it must’ve been the wind. This is good enough for Arthur, whose eyes slip closed once again.

Merlin, though. Her friend’s eyes have always been perceptive. He watches her with curiosity. She avoids his gaze, sitting back down in her familiar chair. He watches her a bit longer, and she can feel the parchment, tempting her, commanding her to read. Eventually, his attention turns back to the prince, and she tries not to make her relief too clear.

She waits to tear it free of her dress until she’s in the privacy of her home, and she reads, hungry. At the end, she is perplexed. She reads it again. And again. She’s tempted to keep it, hidden somewhere, just for a moment. But before she can stop herself, she lights it on a candle’s flame, and holds on tight as Morgana’s words are engulfed by fire.

The letter:

Gwen,

This is pathetic.

This is so pathetic.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. You’ll probably just throw it straight into the fire before you read it.

But I just – I have to.

My sister hasn’t left her bed in two weeks. Her pulse grows weaker by the hour, and I fear she won’t make it much longer.

Not that you care, anyway. You’ve made that perfectly clear.

But I care.

And – I need someone to know that I do, actually, care about some things.

I’m not entirely heartless, you know. I know what it means to love. I love my sister. I loved Camelot, once. I might even still. But everything’s so mixed up in my mind that it’s hard to know if the you in my head is the you that still exists.

Because I think that the me in your head died long, long ago.

I’m not making any sense, and this wasn’t even the point of this letter. I would start over, but I only have so much parchment, so congratulations on receiving this mess.

The point of this letter was to warn you.

Something terrible is coming, Guinevere. Something so horrible I’m not even sure how to prepare for what’s to come. I cannot tell you when, or what, or how, because I like to think I know you still, and I am fairly certain you will try to stop me.

But since I like to think I know you, still, I’m betting on the fact that you’ve been keeping my letters to you secret, because if your precious Arthur found out about our regular rendezvous, well… I can only imagine the danger that would put us both in.

So the only thing I can offer you, Gwen, is to be cautious, stay on guard, and follow the fire, wherever it goes. Your life will depend on it.

M

~~~

The night after Samhain, Morgana shivers. Her mind races with images, words, all tangled and confusing. Her hand, driving the dagger through her sister’s heart, and with it, her own ripping to shreds. Ghoulish, mournful spirits, rushing from the veil. The hearth is burning low. It should last until morning.

She hopes.

She prays.

A flutter of wings lands in her window, and a raven hops into the hovel. Morgana pets its head, and the raven leans into the touch. They are all the other has, it seems. Morgana takes the parchment and reads with tired eyes. At its end, shame rises up all over again. She decides she does not care what the dorocha do to her. She drifts to sleep, the parchment clutched against her chest.

The letter:

Morgana,

What have you _done_?

What, in the name of the Great Mother, have you unleashed into this land?

I have never seen horror such as this, never heard such desperate cries. There is no place to hide from them, nowhere we can be free of their terror.

I write this with a hurried hand under torchlight, huddled with the other maids, my back turned away as much as I dare.

I have never been so terrified.

Do they not chill you to the bone? The wailing of unrested souls that you have wrenched into our world?

I suppose, perhaps, in your own twisted way, you thought your letter was of a good service. You may have even thought you were doing me a favor with your riddle-filled warning.

And I suppose, perhaps, in my own twisted way, I am thankful. Had I not been carrying a torch with me through the nights since your letter, I would surely be dead, frozen in the space of a breath by the icy dorocha.

Gwen

P.S. I think the Morgana I know had a hand in your last letter, whether you care to admit it or not.

~~~

Gwen hasn’t left her home in five days. The last she saw of her friends – the prince, the servant, the knights – was at the funeral.

_Lancelot’s funeral,_ she thinks, unwilling to forget the name. Guilt rises up, dancing with her grief, and she sinks deeper into her bed.

When she wakes – she hadn’t even realized she fell asleep – a raven is resting on her chest. It should frighten her; it does not. She strokes the raven’s head, and its eyes drift shut. With heavy lidded eyes, she removes the parchment, and she reads. At the end, she’s surprised to find her heart stuttering, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile. She brings the paper to hover, just shy of her lips. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. Then, she tears the letter to shreds and scatters them with the ashes of letters past.

The letter:

Guinevere,

I was terrified.

I admit this to you, and only you.

You’re all I have left. All that you give to me, at least. It’s all I have.

I was alone when the dorocha came. I assume you know what that means.

But you must understand, Guinevere, I had no choice. The dorocha had to be unleashed. My sister insisted upon it.

It was her dying wish, Guinevere.

How could I deny her that?

I could not bear it, to give her a meaningless death.

It pains me to write this, for it feels like a confession. I’m not one to confess. Not in these times. And yet, I must write this.

I felt the veil close, days ago. It has been since then that I last saw the dorocha.

In the aftermath, I find myself having one singular hope.

I hope you are safe.

I hope you kept by the torchlight. I hope your writings were not found out. I imagine you, scribbling frantically in the flickering firelight. In your scrawling handwriting, I see your fear, for more than just a swift and cold death by a supernatural hand.

I have my own fears. In these times, I attempt to keep them closer to the heart.

But perhaps, Guinevere, you see them in me. You’ve always had a gift in that way.

M

P.S. The admission you speak of bears a cost that I cannot pay. Not today.

~~~

A week passes. Morgana worries she’s shown her hand. She fears she is alone, finally. Her hands wring in front of her, fingers tying flimsy knots.

_Maybe I’ll take up embroidery again,_ she thinks for a flash. As soon as the thought comes, she banishes it.

The welcome beating of a raven’s wings fan through the air. Morgana runs to the window, embarrassed with her haste. Giving the raven a bit of seed, she takes the parchment – pocketing the crimson thread – and reads. At its end, she notices her cheeks are warm. She touches a cool hand to her face, surprised to find a flush there. Her stomach churns. Perhaps, though, not from any illness.

She holds the letter close for a moment, pressing it to her chest before tucking it away with the others.

The letter:

Morgana,

Though it saddens me to hear of your loneliness, I do not feel sympathy for you.

I am rolling through grief of my own. My grief, though, much like your fear, I keep tucked where only I can see.

I’m not sure how to name what I feel for you. But sympathy makes no place in my heart. There is anger, though, simmering away in my belly, every time I read your words.

_I had no choice,_ you write.

Oh, how sweet that would be. To be trapped in a fate we cannot escape. To be powerless in the forward momentum of our lives. If only it were so simple, my lady.

There is always a choice.

There always will be a choice.

You and me, we make ourselves. We become what we are.

These letters, for example. I make the choice, over and over again, to snatch your letters up before anyone can see. I choose hide them away and read them, over and over again, trying to etch them into my very memory, these small scraps of you. I choose to put ink to paper, over and over again, with looping letters writing to you.

It is my greatest shame, my greatest secret, and my greatest treasure. To have something I share only with you. 

You are right, you know. When the dorocha descended, I chose to write to you. I did so with great fear, frantic to get my words to you. In many ways, the fear of having this correspondence revealed was far more frightening than a swift death.

Today as I write, I have the luxury of time. I will not tell you why, for you may get ideas in your head that I would never want to be guilty of planting. But all the same, I am sitting, completely alone, in a familiar room with lavender curtains.

You know it well.

You also know the view that I’m looking out upon. The rolling forests, now turned deep scarlet, golden yellow, auburn orange, as the sun casts crisp and gleaming light down over the land. We used to sit here, for hours on end, pretending to practice our embroidery while you told me tales of noble drama and I shared stories from the forge. You used to look out over these same forests, a peaceful smile on your face.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

You will say it is not good to dwell on the past. You will say there is no point to remembering – that those women are long gone, destroyed, twisted into something mangled and bitter. That may very well be true.

All the same though, it is such a beautiful thing. To remember.

Guinevere

P.S. I am alone, too, in many ways.

P.P.S. Choose to write again soon.

~~~

A month passes. The monotony of court trappings are suffocating. Meetings to serve, bed sheets to clean, plates to clear, nobles to appease. The winter descends, the snow falls. Gwen feels like her skin crawls, in anticipation, in worry, in boredom.

She always keeps one ear open for a tapping on a window.

It comes, again, while she, the prince – _King,_ she must remind herself, since Arthur’s abrupt ascension to the throne – and Merlin, are all gathered for a late night drink in the king’s chambers. This time, when she goes to the window, the servant keeps his eyes trained on her, suspicion in his gaze. As she cracks open the glass, though, she’s surprised – there’s not a raven in sight. Only a scroll – larger than usual, it seems – sitting held in place by a stone. Looking out on the inky horizon, she feels, rather than sees, the midnight bird flying away. With an expert hand, she scoops the scroll deep into her sleeve, securing it against her forearm. She turns back to the room, and the servant’s eyes narrow at her. She keeps her eyes trained on him, willing her pounding heart not to betray her excitement, her fear, her anticipation.

He inquires about the noise at the window.

Gwen swallows. She dismisses it as the wind.

He leaves it at that.

Late that night, as the candle burns low, the king requests a midnight meal from the chambers; Gwen volunteers to retrieve it. She leaves before either one of them can protest, making her way through the darkened halls. The parchment scratches against her arm.

She tries to ignore it.

But as she rounds the corner, she finds herself ducking into a secluded enclave. Before she can stop herself, she grabs the parchment, drinking it in with bated breath. Her fingers trace, deliberate and gentle, across the ink strokes. As she reads, she smiles, taking in each word like a precious jewel, cut and polished just for her. At the end, she stifles a chuckle behind her hand, shaking her head. Something within her warms, surprised at her own delight.

When she ducks into the kitchens, the parchment, along with all its secrets, escapes into flame and smoke. In its wake, Gwen feels a hollow ache rise somewhere deep within.

The letter:

Guinevere,

I’ve been staring at this piece of parchment, bearing only your name, unsure of what to say. Rarely am I uncertain. Rarely have I ever been.

And yet, in the wake of your words, I was rendered unsure as to how to proceed.

I still am, to be clear.

I suppose it is best for me to begin by addressing your last letter.

You would do well not to assume what I have to say, Guinevere. You said it yourself: we become what we are. Nothing is decided.

Your words, not mine.

I remember that view well. The lavender curtains, especially. I remember how the warmth of the sun felt on my face. How I saw myself in the fire of the autumnal forests. And of course, I remember the blasted embroidery. I would always pass mine off to you, to make it look as though I were making progress.

What a thing, to remember. Of course that was my lot in life. Pretending to embroider, while inside, I burned. And beside me, you sat, glowing like the sun above.

Oh god, listen to me. It’s all so fantastical, surely it couldn’t have happened like that. But all the same, that’s the feeling that stays with me.

Feeling warm, by your side.

There are glimpses of that feeling in your letters you write me. There’s no denying it.

As I sit here, writing, I imagine you. Holding this paper I touch in my hand. Perhaps you run your finger along the indentations in the paper, or the smudges where my hand brushes through ink before it dries. I like to envision you, huddled away in the many nooks of that godforsaken castle, holding the parchment close to read.

Perhaps you read with hushed breath.

Maybe you’re holding your breath without even knowing right at the moment you read this. Now I can imagine you biting back a chuckle, gentle and full, as you realize that’s exactly what you’ve done.

I like knowing I’m a treasure to you. In a way.

You are the same to me. In a way.

I’ve kept each of your letters you’ve written thus far. I thought you might like to know. All of them. The ones filled with hurt, with venom, with power. I squirrel them away in my hovel; they’re the most precious thing I’ve ever been gifted. Little fragments of you for me to hold on to.

Hold on to me, too.

Yours,

Morgana

~~~

The raven returns to Morgana’s hovel bearing Gwen’s reply. It is wound tight with a familiar strip of silken violet fabric. Morgana holds it tight, giving the silk a soft sniff. There’s not much of a scent, but if Morgana imagines, she can remember the smell of the comfrey balm, sitting on her old dresser, in a faraway land.

She reads. As she takes in the words on the page, her hand drifts across each letter. Her heart stutters, breath hitching, face warming. Her stomach rolls, over and over and over again.

Certainly not an illness, then.

She is surprised, at the end, to find moisture at the corner of her eyes. From what? From sadness? Grief? Longing?

Or, most fearfully, desire?

Morgana swallows, clenching her jaw. She closes her eyes and brings the hand that traced Gwen’s words to her lips, imagining. Then, the letter joins the others, tucked in and secured in her wooden chest, just so.

The letter:

My lady,

I address you with intention, as I sense you do as well.

_Yours._

There is so much in that word, Morgana. Perhaps I read too deeply into it. I dearly hope I do not.

You’ll be glad to know I did, indeed, have to bite back a chuckle, upon reading your words. I drink them in, and it seems I forget I have a body that requires breath for a moment. You are right, again, that it is such a sweet indulgence, to trace my fingers along your words. I sense you in them. And for a moment, I am not alone.

And now, my lady, I must be crystal clear, for if I am not, I will never forgive myself.

I miss you with a ferocity I did not know I had.

I hunger, desperate, for your letters to arrive, so that I may see the slightest glimpse of you. I take them in like a starving servant consumes the first harvest at a famine’s end. Like the crumbs eaten by the castle’s rats, left behind by pigeons after a feeding.

I feel I am a savage, tearing into your letters, letting them roll through my mind. At its end, when I must cast your words into the fire, I am left hollow, hungry, and wanting, all over again.

When I am in the king’s presence, I am the perfect image of a woman in service. A friend. I am compassion. I am kindness. I am loyalty. I am service. And I love him. Of course I love him.

But you, Morgana.

Oh, I become a beast, when I am left alone with your precious gems. Your slanted print. Your fantastical memory of the times we shared. And yes, the smudges left by your hand, where I know you were pressed against the parchment.

Those are the sweetest morsels, and I am desperate for more.

I do hope my intention is clear to you. If not, let me try once again: I feel that same warmth you describe, and only in the letters you send. Burning, low, bright, and full, deep in my belly. You are right, my lady. There is no denying it. So write, and write, and write some more. I will never tire of your words, or the ghost of your touch, that they bring.

It is the only thing that can sate me.

Yours truly,

Guinevere

~~~

Gwen is lucky, the next time the raven comes. The cold winter’s night is her only company as it sends her shivering in her home. She sits, unashamedly staring out the window. She’s made a habit out of this nightly routine. She returns to her home, starts a fire, and sits, waiting for the flutter of wings. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a part of her questions her motives. Why does she do this? Why sit, night after night, alone, waiting for a letter that might never come?

_Because I must,_ she thinks, her insides swirling. _And because it will._

Tonight, when the raven arrives, Gwen is relieved. She stands at once, opening up the wooden window pane to let the half-frozen bird inside. It hops towards the fire, puffing its wings out to search for warmth. The small scroll tied to its leg is fastened with a familiar crimson thread.

Gwen can’t wait any longer. She takes the scroll in hand, kneels by the fire, and loses herself in the words. Emotions hurl through her: familiar wounds of hurt, betrayal, loss. New paths for feelings, then, of warmth, of the beginnings of forgiveness. Her lips curl into a smile, her hands clutching tight to the paper.

Then, she reads it again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, she grazes the words with her fingers, hoping to soak the ink right into her skin.

If only to feel a bit closer. And then, she tosses the letter to the fire. Her eyes drift shut, and she imagines.

The letter:

Dearest Guinevere,

I wish I could deny the truth I sense in your words.

I wish I could brush them aside, call you a coward, a traitor, a liar. Spill poison out into you, a swift and certain rage that would push you away, once and for all.

Gwen. I could not bear it. Not anymore.

You speak of hunger to read my words, and it sends a shudder down my spine, just to think of it. A part of me, held in your mind.

You are in luck, dear. Where you are desperate to read, I desire nothing more than to write myself onto this page.

I can only but give you what you ask, even as little as it may be. A curled word, _here._ A brush of my hand, _just so._ A spilling of my thoughts onto this page, a precious thing.

My time away from you has made me see one thing so, so clearly, it is blinding me.

It is you, Gwen. It has always been you. You are what I fought for, from the beginning. From the time you became my maid. When your loyalty was challenged, again and again, by my godforsaken father. When your own kin was killed.

But even after those times, I did horrible, _horrible_ things to you, Gwen. And I can’t go forward, without you knowing that, simple and plain.

It was I that arranged for the kidnapping of your brother. I, that told the foul enemy king’s men where to find you, the night you were taken. I, that betrayed you. All for the sake of vengeance against a cruel and unrelenting father.

I suspect you already know this, because you are cunning and clever. And I feel myself tearing open, telling you this, laying it bare for you. I know that in the wake of these words, you may feel nothing but anger, even worse than the lies I’ve tried to jab you with. Lies that I do not care and never did. Lies that I want to destroy you, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left of you. 

The truth is so much more exposing, I fear. I am raw before you.

I care for you so deeply it frightens me. I want to build you up, word by word, until your glory is on display for the world to see. And I want to be a part of it. Part of your life. Part of your story.

When you cast this letter into the fire, I want you to picture the warmth of the flames as though they are my hands, cupping your face, holding you as the precious, fearsome, glorious woman you are. It is what I long to do as I write this for you. More than anything I’ve ever wanted.

Helplessly yours,

Morgana

P.S. I am sending you a gift. Make no mistake, it is for you, and it is not what it seems. However it may appear to you, it is me, and it is yours. Treat it like this letter. Hide it away, as best as you can. Devour it, and let it devour you. I look forward to hearing what you think when you write me next. 

~~~

_A gift._

The singular thought, the tantalizing promise, consumes Gwen. She looks for it everywhere, unsure as to where it will come from. She passes her distraction off as tiredness, and the king reduces her duties.

One night, Merlin worries for her health. He corners her as she heaves bathwater through the castle. “You know you can tell me,” he says, “if something’s wrong.” His words should feel like a comforting promise, Gwen knows. A reassurance from a friend.

But his eyes.

How his eyes betray him. How hardened they have become. How they reveal the threat behind his placating words. Suspicion is the death of all that is good in Camelot.

So, Gwen does the only thing she can. She tells the truth with an honest smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Merlin,” she says with an innocent shake of the head. “All the same, thank you for your concern.” She ducks around his tall form, heaving the water in her arms.

From behind her, he calls, “Is this about Morgana?”

She halts, her stomach turning to ice. Her face is stone, her heart stops. He’s not moving either, she notices. She hears no footfalls – only her own breath in her ears. She feels tears collect in her eyes, and she cannot push them away. Not now. Not in front of her friend. After everything they’ve been through.

She turns back to face him, her vision blurred. She attempts a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. “Isn’t it always, these days?” Her voice thickens. She cannot explain this away, she knows.

He watches her for what feels like an eternity. Cocks his head to the side, his arms relaxed at his sides. Gwen stays rooted to the spot, all-too-exposed, all-too-vulnerable. Then, he walks up to her, wrapping his arms around her. He holds her tight, and she hides away from him, burying her face in his tunic.

After a moment, he pulls away, and says to her, “Come.” Keeping a hand on her shoulder, he leads her through the castle, and she follows.

As they navigate through the familiar hallways, she learns where they’re going, and her heart races, suddenly cautious and confused. But she keeps her thoughts to herself, following after him, still hauling the water in her hands.

Merlin opens the door to Morgana’s abandoned chambers, inviting Gwen inside. She enters, and it takes her a moment to get her bearings.

When she does, she gasps. The bucket of water slips from her hand, splashing against her dress. She doesn’t care, not in the slightest. She blinks the last of the moisture from her eyes, disbelieving.

Morgana stands in the center of the room, jet black robes shimmering on her frame. She smiles, tossing a glance to Merlin. She nods to him, and he gives a stiff nod in return.

“You have three candlemarks,” he says, looking to Gwen. “I cannot promise anything more.” He’s tense, as though ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. But when he sees the glimmer in Gwen’s eye, he softens, if only just. Then, without another word, he leaves, bolting the door shut in his wake.

Then, there is silence. Gwen stares at Morgana’s form, hands tingling at her sides. The silence stretches on, and Gwen begins to fear she’s imagining the whole event.

“Is it… is it you? Some sort of… apparition?” Gwen whispers.

“In a way, yes,” Morgana says, her voice pure silk to Gwen’s ears. “It is an illusion… and it is me.” She smiles, walking closer to Gwen. As she approaches, Gwen’s pulse spikes in her chest, her breaths short and shallow, until Morgana stands mere inches from her. She extends a pale, luminous hand to Gwen’s wrist, and the touch sends a tremor through Gwen’s body. It is cool, warm, soft, sharp, all at once, and when her hand pulls away, Gwen finds herself lifting her arm after her.

“Patience, dear,” Morgana says, her form seeming to glow, soft and beautiful, from the inside out. It’s almost like a shadow of herself, the way it is there, before her, and yet impermanent. “I have a gift for you.” Then, she hooks a pearlescent finger into the neckline of Gwen’s bodice, leading her to the bed.

Gwen follows, sinking deep into the feather-soft mattress, and listens to Morgana’s letter.

At its end, she rests, relaxed, truly, for the first time in a long time.

~~~

Morgana wakes the next morning feeling strange. There is an absence of tension. No instincts to flinch, to startle. Her breaths come in and out without issue. There is no tightness in her chest.

It is peace she feels. And at the realization, she smiles, relishing in the feeling.

Her mind fills with the memory of the previous evening. Her magic, reaching out, forming right in the heart of Camelot. For her. Only for her.

She remembers Merlin, finding her apparition, startling. Eyes dark. He had no reason to trust her. And yet, he did. And yet, he found Gwen.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Her body feels the rippling pleasure, even still, here in her hovel.

Then, the raven arrives, bearing a carefully rolled letter, tied with a thread from Gwen’s bodice. Morgana takes it, tying it around her wrist. Lingers on the soft blue string. After a moment, she unfurls the parchment.

As she reads, her center fills, all over again, overflowing with Gwen. This piece of her, here in her hands. The memory of her against her fingertips, her lips, her _everything._ She reads, taking the luxury of time. When she’s satisfied, she decides she cannot wait a moment more. Ripping a small scrap of parchment, she scribbles a note, frantic. Ties it in a haphazard fashion around the raven’s leg.

For the first time in many moons, Morgana feels the anticipation only hope can bring.

The letter:

Oh, my lady,

I am drunk on you. Your gift. Your letter. I am dizzy, knowing every touch, every breath, every word, was all you, and you, and you some more.

I must say, you are cunning beyond comprehension, the way you press your words into me. I know my attempts at literacy could never compare, but the pleasure washing through me seems it will carry me for the rest of my days. 

Even now, you rest by my side, and I am a preening cat under your caressing hand. What a surprise, and a delight, to be spoiled like this.

I know I should feel anger at your confession in your last letter. And certainly, I did feel the familiar tugs in my gut of hurt. And I know I must look, with a critical eye, what that means to me.

But just now, my god, I could not hope to.

Not with your presence so close, and closer, and closer.

I have died a little death by your hand, and I would die until there was nothing left of me, my lady.

There must be some way I can repay you. Show you my appreciation. The evidence of my indulgence at your hand.

Maybe you can read this, through your gift’s eyes.

_Hello, Morgana._

Oh, the way your gift replies, it is as though it were your hands on me.

_Touch me, where I’m pointing, if you’re reading this, right now, as I write._

It has been some time since I wrote that last sentence. You will know why as well as I. I feel like the way I rest, languid, pliant, and glowing, is clear as day here on this page.

And it is all for you, Morgana.

Delightedly sated,

Guinevere

~~~

The next morning, a rapid tapping at the window wakes Gwen. She rushes to the window, opening it up, to see a hopping, excited raven eagerly extending its leg out. It’s just a small scrap of torn paper. Gwen reads.

At its end, she packs a bag.

The letter:

I need more of you. I am going to Ealdor. I will be alone.  
_Come to me._

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work comes from a line in a poem by Christina Rossetti, 'I loved you first: but afterwards your love'.


End file.
